


Dynamite

by foxxcub



Category: Literary RPF, Shakespeare RPF | Elizabethan & Jacobean Theater RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banter, M/M, One Night Stands, SO MUCH BANTER
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 15:46:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17046428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxxcub/pseuds/foxxcub
Summary: Starving artists will do anything to achieve greatness.





	Dynamite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sage (sageness)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sageness/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, Sage! I was so, SO excited to get your request, as it was possibly the one fandom I really, really wanted to write this Yuletide. I had an absolute blast writing this, and I hope you don't mind too much that I put them in a modern day setting (or that I took liberties with Marlowe's name).
> 
> As always, nothing involving the Bard in my writing can be fully accomplished without my dearest Lynn. Thank you, love, for the beta, the faithful Brit-picking (for this wretched Midwestern American girl), and the advice/cheerleading!

Sunshine hits Topher in the face as he blinks awake. The bed in which he’s currently laying face down is not his own; the sheets are too smooth against his skin. 

His bare skin.

_Fuck._

Topher groans into his pillow as the night before comes slinking back to mind: a crowded dance floor, good whiskey shots, even better music, and an obscenely gorgeous guy with tattoos, unruly dark hair, and a mouth made for sin.

Fucking hell, the man could kiss. 

And judging from the vague ache in Topher’s arse, he can fuck as well. 

He remembers stumbling up the front steps of a block of flats, then more stairs as they’d pulled at each other’s clothes. The guy had fumbled with some keys, and then they’d fallen through the doorway to land in a heap in the foyer, snorting with laughter.

Topher remembers the guy saying something about “she’ll fucking murder me in the morning” before yanking Topher close and kissing a messy line from Topher’s neck to his jaw. “It’ll be worth it,” he’d added in a whisper against Topher’s ear.

After that, things get a bit...blurry.

A leg slides against his. He hears a low, rumbly purr from the other side of the bed.

“Still here, Thomas?”

Topher winces. They haven’t even given out their real names. At some point in the evening Topher had mentioned he was a writer, and when the guy had asked his preferred authors, the first one to come to mind was Dylan Thomas. 

He knows nothing of the man in bed with him. Being gorgeous and fantastic at shagging aren’t personality traits. 

Topher opens one eye, and his stomach swoops. 

The guy smiles at him, and he’s all tousled hair and dark stubble and long lashes around the most ridiculously lovely blue eyes. His lips look pink in the morning sunlight, as if he’s lined them with gloss. There’s even a dimple in his cheek.

Topher scowls, because it’s the only thing he can think to do, and says, “I didn’t mean to stay the night.”

The guy quirks an eyebrow. His nose twitches, and the quick blink of light reminds Topher that oh yes, right, he also has a diamond nose stud. Bloody perfect. “As I recall, you were quite content to sleep anywhere after that last orgasm.”

 _The last?_ “I...we didn’t…”

He leans in and nudges his nose against Topher’s. “We did. Three rounds, or so. I haven’t gotten hard that many times since, I dunno, school?”

Topher tries not to let his body go a bit melty at the way the guy’s nuzzling at Topher’s mouth. “How old are you?”

He laughs. “Why, are you accusing me of something? Am I on camera?” He holds up one hand, chuckling as he slides his whole body closer to Topher under the sheets. “I swear, officer, I thought he looked fit as fuck and perfectly of age.”

“I’m serious, here.” Topher leans (reluctantly) away from the guy’s wandering mouth. “I don’t even know where I am, or who _you_ are. For all I know, you’re some crazed lunatic with a trunk full of human skins and you’re just waiting for the perfect moment to flay me alive.”

“Bloody hell, that’s dark. It’s barely ten past eight.” He props himself up on one elbow and smirks at Topher. “What if _you’re_ the lunatic who wants to steal my identity and live a double life in Denmark?”

Topher blinks. “Denmark?”

The guy shrugs. “All right, Finland? I’ve never been, but I’m sure a criminal mastermind would find it suitable.”

“I’m not a criminal mastermind!”

“Well, how should I know that? You yourself just said we don’t know each other.”

Topher blushes, much to his chagrin. “I don’t know normally do these...things.” 

“What things?”

“This!” Topher flails his hand at the general vicinity of the bed.

“So, you don’t sleep?”

“Don’t be obtuse.”

“Ah.” He grins. “I love that word. And you’re using it whilst hungover and recovering from a rather intense shagging, if I do say so.”

To Topher’s horror, his cock twitches. He sets his jaw and says, very plainly, “I don’t do one night stands.”

The guys reaches over and flicks a bit of Topher’s hair off his forehead. “‘Kay.”

“What—’okay?’ That’s not a response.”

“It is, actually. A full sentence—an adverb, I believe. Singular.”

Topher sits up, the sheets pooling around his waist. “No, it’s—I shouldn’t even be here.”

“But you are. You even said in the cab that you liked Shoreditch.”

“You live in _Shoreditch?_ ” 

“Problem?”

“Yes, I have a problem! My flat’s in Fulham, for fuck’s sake!”

He feels a toe poke at his bare foot beneath the blankets. “Paint me a better picture, Thomas.”

Topher scrubs both hands over his face. “What the bloody fuck were you doing in a club in west London?”

“My roommate wanted a change of pace. I indulged her.”

“And paid a billion quid to ride back home!” 

The guy leans up to where he's eye level with Topher again. His smile makes something hot and silky unfurl low in Topher’s stomach. “You’re terribly concerned about the cab fare of a stranger you’re claiming you shouldn’t have fucked.”

“You’re not answering my question.” 

“Sorry, what was that again?” His words are slightly muffled against Topher's neck as he kisses him there.

“Why were you—” Topher pauses as he feels a soft bite at the juncture of his shoulder. He swallows and starts again. “Why bring me here?”

“Because I wanted to fuck you in peace and quiet? Because I have 800 thread count sheets and a bloody amazing goose down duvet and my walls are surprisingly thick? Because you’re almost painfully, devastatingly fit, and blush like a dream when you’re aroused, and I kind of wanted to see that under my own private lights?”

Topher opens his mouth, shuts it, then says, slowly, “Oh.”

“Need I continue?”

“I...uh…” Sunshine glints once more off the guy’s nose stud as he leans back and looks at Topher expectantly. His goddamn mouth is too pink, too...full. No, lush. His mouth is lush like a satin pillow. 

“There's that blush.” The guy sweeps his thumb over the bridge of Topher’s nose. “Complete with freckles. Absolutely divine.”

No one has ever called Topher’s freckles _divine_. It’s absurd, freckles aren’t something to be objectified like a Renaissance painting. Topher wants to say as much, but he’s caught in the slow, lazy appraisal of the guy’s (unfairly beautiful) blue eyes. His gaze snags on Topher’s mouth for a long, silent moment before meandering back up. His thumb still rests against Topher’s cheek.

“Tell me your name,” Topher whispers. Not because he intends to, at all, but there’s no helping it right now.

“Let me guess yours,” the guy says instead. He leans in, brushes his mouth over Topher’s in a ghost of a kiss.

Topher tries not to be disappointed when he pulls away. “All right. Give it your best shot.”

“It’s not Thomas, is it.”

“That would be some coincidence, to be named for one of my literary idols.”

“Indeed. Also, you don’t look like a Thomas. They normally have very broad noses.”

Topher wrinkles his. “And you know this how?”

He clucks his tongue, tapping his thumb against the dimple in Topher’s chin. “Definitely not a Kyle,” he says, “or a Daniel. Two syllable names are out, I’d wager.”

“What does that even—”

“You’re too witty to be a John. Far too pretty to be a Dominic—I’ve never met a blond Dominic, besides, not in London. You’re a writer, so Teddy is out—unless you go by Ted, and let’s be honest, you’re too brilliant to inflict such a thing upon yourself or the public. Tobias suits you, but I doubt you’d let anyone call you Toby and live to tell about it.”

Topher shakes his head. “You’re mad.”

“Am I wrong?”

“You’re...not incorrect.”

The guy grins, mischievous and secretive. Topher unfortunately wants to kiss him again. “What’s my prize if I guess correctly?”

“Not having fucked a nameless stranger?”

“Ah, but you’re not a stranger. I already know you’re from Fulham, like Dylan Thomas, and are phenomenal in bed.”

“I’m still nameless.”

“Not after I’ve guessed correctly.”

“You’re very certain of yourself.”

“I am. Drives my poor roommate mental, you have no idea. I think her favourite thing to call me is _pompous degenerate_.” He pauses, looks away and chuckles. “That’s not my name, by the way.”

“Well, then we’ve eliminated one option, at least.” 

The chuckle bursts into true laughter. “I suppose I deserve that. Now, about my prize—”

“If you’re so certain, _you_ decide.” God, what is he even saying? Topher should be dressed and heading out the door to the nearest tube station, not… _flirting_ whilst still naked and sporting a fairly substantial erection that doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.

“Fine. If I guess your name, you’ll have dinner with me. Tonight.”

“That’s…” His heart thuds loudly in his ears. “That’s...very ambitious.”

“I don’t do things by halves.”

“Apparently.” This was ridiculous. Topher knows, statistically, that there is virtually no way the guy will guess correctly. 

And yet Topher holds his breath as he adds, softer, “Okay. Dinner.”

A sweet, pink flush spreads across the guy’s scruffy cheeks. “I’ll let you pick the location.”

“Oh, well, thank you so much.”

“You’re very welcome.” He lowers himself back down onto the bed, leaning in close enough that Topher nearly goes cross-eyed looking at him. He busses a kiss over Topher’s nose, then whispers, “You strike me as a Christopher.”

All the air rushes from Topher’s lungs. “W-what?”

“Maybe not a _full_ Christopher, but...Kit, perhaps?”

“How did you—”

“Am I right?”

“I...I…” He can’t decide if he’s dumbstruck or horribly aroused. Or both. “I don’t believe this.”

“Chris seems very pedestrian—”

“Only my mum and grandmother call me Kit.” Topher’s throat feels very dry. “I...prefer Topher.”

His mouth quirks up at the corner, making him look rakish and dangerous and sexy as all living fuck. “Topher.” He says his name like he’s tasting a fine wine for the first time.

“So, ah. Since I’m apparently having dinner with you, I suppose I’ll need to know your—”

“Will, bloody hell! Could you at least _attempt_ a sense of propriety once in a while?” A feminine voice breaks through their intimate bubble, and Topher nearly falls out of the bed. He’s about to open his mouth and ask a) if his name is, in fact, Will and b) why a random woman is shouting his name at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning, only the woman in question throws open the bedroom door as if nothing is amiss.

“Oh, right,” she says, cocking her hip against the door frame and folding her arms over her chest. “The writer.”

Topher bolts upright, forgetting about his state of undress. “Excuse me?! Have we met?”

She rolls her eyes and gives the man in bed with him— _Will_ —a weary look. “Seriously, darling? You didn’t tell him? His boxers are on the kitchen floor.”

Will laces his fingers behind his head and gives her a smile that has a bite to it. “And good morning to you as well, light of my life.” He jerks his head toward the door. “Topher, please meet my lovely roommate, Anne. She’s a joy beyond reckoning.”

“How the fuck does she know I’m a writer?” Topher says, his voice a bit too shrill. There’s a roaring in his ears.

Anne raises an eyebrow and doesn’t respond. She looks straight at Will.

“You’re amazing,” she drawls.

“I had it under control,” Will responds, over-enunciating each word.

“Of course you did. Why else would the man be naked and nearly apoplectic?”

“Dearest, I thought you were staying at Jocelyn’s for brunch this fine morning?” Will’s cheeks have turned a fair shade of scarlet. 

Anne waves her hand. “Jocey got wasted and begged off. I was rather looking forward to mimosas and eggs benedict, not coming home to find the place reeking of sex and clueless journalists.”

“Okay!” Topher throws up his hands. He would stand up were it not for the fact that, yes, his underwear is currently somewhere in the kitchen area. “Would someone please tell me _what the fuck_ is going on?” 

Will sighs heavily and scrubs both hands over his face. Topher hears a faint _fuck_ hidden behind them. “Anne, can you give us a moment, for fuck’s sake?”

She snorts and shakes her head. Then she smiles at Topher. “He’s not a complete git, mind you, just when he deeply fancies someone. I’ll be in the kitchen making myself some breakfast—you’re welcome to join me.” She winks at him, and adds, “Topher.”

“THANK YOU, LOVE,” Will shouts as the bedroom closes with a snick.

Topher’s heart quietly has a nervous breakdown. “You...you know who I am,” he says to the wall in front of him. There’s a map of London hanging there, with pins stuck in random places.

“I do,” Will says. 

“And you, what, thought you’d draw it out for a lark? Have a good laugh at some poor desperate wanker who needed to get fucked?”

“Let’s break that down a bit.” Will takes a deep breath as he slowly sits up. Topher can sense him reaching his hand out, and swears to Christ if the fucker touches him right now, he’ll...he’ll...

“First, you’re not some desperate wanker. You’re a talented writer for _The Guardian_ who’s won three Press Awards for Critic of the Year. Honestly, I don’t know how you’re not getting that gorgeous arse of yours stuffed with cock seven days a week.”

Topher turns and glares at him. “And second, you stalked me at a bloody club like the sociopath you truly are!”

“I _didn’t_ stalk you!”

“Then explain to me how the fuck your roommate knows me, and how you, who live in _Shoreditch_ , knew where I’d be on a random Saturday night in west London!”

“I wasn’t lying when I said Anne wanted a change of pace! Her childhood best friend happens to live in Chelsea, so we went, on her recommendation, to her favourite club. And I swear to you on my mother’s grave, I had no earthly idea you were even there until Anne grabbed my arm and said, ‘Isn’t that Topher Marlowe over by the bar?’ And I...I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to hear your voice out loud, and not just words on paper.”

He feels himself helplessly start to melt a little. Topher grits his teeth and tries not to stare at Will’s stupidly plush mouth. “Why the games at all? You could have told me your name from the beginning, introduced yourself properly.”

Will smirks, which doesn’t help Topher’s staring. “As I recall the chronology of events, _you_ came on to _me_.”

“Bullshit, you asked to buy me a drink!”

“After you wriggled your hips at me and asked if I liked Gareth Emery.” His smirk slides neatly into a smile that’s all sex. “Which, I’d listen to a duck fart on a bassoon if it got you grinding up on me within five seconds.”

Without warning, Topher is hard as a rock. “I don’t...recall that part,” he says. His traitorous cock is pitching a perfect tent with Will’s duvet and there’s nothing for it. 

“Shame. You’re quite irresistible when you’re on the prowl.” His gaze flicks down to Topher’s very obvious erection. “Even if I wasn’t already half in love with your words, I’d want to shag the daylights out of you on sight.”

“Stop.” Topher holds his hand up and it presses against Will’s bare chest. He doesn’t know when they’d started leaning into one another. “You can’t just...just...say things like that. You’re quite mad, after all.”

“Yes, Anne tells me this on a daily basis.”

“And you apparently know everything about me, yet I know nothing about you, and I’m supposed to be all right with this?”

“You can simply ask, you know.”

“I did!”

“No, you implied I was a serial killer out to turn your skin into a handbag.”

Topher refuses to blush. “Fine. _Fine._ Tell me your name. Your _full_ name.”

“William Shakespeare. My mum never gave me a middle name, although Anne likes to tell people it’s Beauford, the cow.”

“Shakespeare.” Topher rolls the name around in his head. It’s frighteningly familiar… 

Then it hits him. “Oh my _fuck_ , you’re...you’re…”

Will tilts his head to one side. “I can Mad Libs this if you’d like, but—”

“You’re fucking _Will Shakespeare_.”

He sucks his teeth for a moment, his expression going almost endearingly apprehensive. “...Yes?”

“You wrote _Twelve_.”

“I did.”

“It won a dozen Olivier Awards.”

“Actually, it was only five.”

“Ian McKellan wants to be in it.”

“Really? Hadn’t heard that one. Colin Farrell’s agent called once, though, that was fun.”

Topher shoves him. “You fucking wrote _the best play in Britain in the last decade_ , and you think it’s funny?!”

“What’s funny is how riled up you get when defending something you love.” Will leans closer, until Topher’s hand is trapped between them. “I could also call you a stalker as well, Mister Marlowe who sat through five separate performances.”

“I didn’t—that’s—”

“Everyone knew. When the highly respected drama critic of _The Guardian_ sits front and centre for nearly a week, that shit gets around. Not to mention the—what was it?—five column review you wrote calling it _a masterpiece for the ages_?”

“The new millennium!” Anne’s voice calls from the other side of the bedroom door. “He called it _a masterpiece for the new millennium_.”

“Go make breakfast, you nosy muppet!” Will yells back, but his cheeks have gone pink again.

Topher suddenly realizes why Anne looks familiar. “Wait, she’s—Anne plays Violet!” Because yes, he does have every character of _Twelve_ memorized down to the most infinitesimal detail.

“Believe me when I say, you should never, ever live with an actor,” Will says solemnly.

The door flings open again. Anne brandishes a spatula at Will. “Says the man who wrote his own parts because he couldn’t find work elsewhere!”

“It was _one fucking time_ , and I was bored—”

“You were desperate and ridiculous. Thank God you know how to write, because your thespian side is crap.”

Will throws a sock at the door, from which Anne neatly ducks away. “You’re the worst, Hathaway. See if I ever help you get laid again.”

“Darling, I don’t need your help. I’m a real actor.” She holds up her middle finger and kisses it sweetly.

Topher stares at the two of them, confused and weirdly turned on. 

“Now, if you boys are quite done with your angsting about, I’ve got a fry-up waiting.”

The smell of bacon and sausage immediately permeates Topher’s senses. He nearly swoons. “Christ, I might love you?”

“Please don’t, you’ll have to fight half of London as it is.” Will nudges Topher’s cheek with his nose and adds, almost in a whisper, “So...dinner, still? Tonight?”

Topher turns his head just enough to where the corner of his mouth brushes over Will’s. “We’ll be honest with each other from here on out, yeah?”

Will kisses him lightly, just a bare press of lips. “Promise. Although…” He skims his palm over Topher’s ever-present hard-on. “This might need to be dealt with before then. Needs must, and all. And I’m willing to do my part.”

“You are, are you?”

“Absolutely. Starving artists will do anything to achieve greatness.” He nips at Topher’s bottom lip, then sucks it sharply. “And your arse, Topher Marlowe, is _peak_ greatness.” 

“Oh my _God_ , just fuck him again and be done with it!” Anne yells from the kitchen. “My beans are getting cold!”

Topher threads his fingers through Will’s hair and tugs him close, rolling back onto the bed. He is, in fact, starving, but he’ll put a pin in that for the moment. 

Greatness awaits, after all.


End file.
